


The Akuma Games

by KaidaThorn



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Akuma Attack, Akuma Possession, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Angst galore, Character Death, Death, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hope, How Can We Fit in all the characters?, Many Characters - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, Slow Burn, Tune in next time on Dragon Ball Z, lots of death, new verse, side characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaidaThorn/pseuds/KaidaThorn
Summary: Twenty-five tributes. Five districts. One winner. It's a grim reminder that things can be worst, and the population must sacrifice their happiness to keep the peace so the akuma do not return.In a game where its kill or be killed and winner takes all, how can you hold on to hope?Hunger Games AU!





	1. The Selection

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyon! Welcome to my fic! It's the first one I'm doing here on AO3 and the first one I've written in years. Luckily I'm not rusty because of my college classes, but I'm very excited to be here.
> 
> To avoid any confusion, this is taking place in an AU of France. The country will still be called France to avoid any confusion, and the five districts are all cardinal directions with a central district. Marinette and her co. all live in South District!
> 
> Note: This story is being cross-published on FanFiction under the same name.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the annual Akuma Games. Every district in France must attend the Selection, a ceremony where five children between the ages of 8 and 20 will be selected to participate in the Akuma Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had debated with the idea of calling this France or Frances, but my roommate told me that Frances would have made it confusing. She also thought it was a typo.
> 
> If anyone has any better ideas, then let me know!

Repetitive pounding stirs Marinette from her slumber, the fragments of a sweet dream cusping her consciousness. Her nose crinkles in distaste at the sudden intrusion before nuzzling it back into her pillow. Desperation whispers miraculous promises of an already forgotten dream, but the thudding jolts Marinette once again. Nothing can help her fall back asleep.

Small hands cover her face as she groans into them. Five minutes is all she had wanted. This wish is too greedy, as are most dreams today. There is only one thing she can hope for on this day until her twentieth birthday: hope.

Hope is, after all, the foundation of France.

The bluenette begrudgingly sighs as she shimmies out of bed. Her feet slide against the cold wooden floor, and she cannot help the shivers casting up her legs. One day she would finally buy a new plush rug to replace her old raggedy one, but she is content with spending all her saved wages to buy fabric and sewing materials instead. To warm herself up and get ready for the day she takes a shower, quick to save money and time, but long enough to momentarily forget the cold and dreadful thoughts raking at her mind. It doesn’t take long to mostly dry her short hair; it will finish drying before the ceremony.

“Marinette!” her mother’s voice calls. “You need to wake yourself up. Today is the- Oh!” The older Chinese woman stops in the doorway as she stares at her daughter. The teenager flinches at the sudden and close noise, fingers curling tightly around the brush’s handle. “I didn’t realize you were awake yet.”

Marinette exhales slowly and sets down the brush, composing herself and calming her mind. She grabs the hair tie that is clenched between her teeth as she makes quick work tying her hair into matching pigtails. “I’ve been restless all night,” she admits. The girl had continued to wake up during her dream whenever something was getting good. Her brow furrows as her brain picks at the night’s memories. What was her dream about? She really wants to know.

She finishes her hair and turns towards her mother. “But something woke me up. Is Papa hanging the flags?”

Sabine nods and chuckles. “Your father always waits until last minute to hang the butterfly flags. I’m surprised it woke you up-“ She stops her train of thought when she sees Marinette suck in a breath. “But I suppose that’s what happens when your father is working with a hammer.” A soft smile trickles onto her face as she places a hand on the thin doorframe. Her eyes linger on her daughter before the smile briefly falters. Something flashes in her eyes. “You should come down and eat. It won’t do you any good to be on an empty stomach.”

Fingers continue to tease the blue-black pigtail. “But, Mamon,” Marinette whispers. Her fingers twitch, desiring to move towards her mother. But the girl is too occupied with making her hair perfect because the of the ceremony’s high standards.

“Ju-just please come.” The woman forces another smile before breaking eye contact with her daughter. Sabine turns away from the door and disappears. For once Marinette cannot hear her mother’s soft steps as she goes downstairs towards the bakery.

Marinette’s hand slides down from her head to her lap as her shoulders slump forward. Bluebell eyes avert towards the mirror as they stare back at her, noticing the fear etched in her features. The mirror perfectly reflects her mother’s expression.

Of course the girl cannot blame her mother for the doubts. Every year they overcome this dreary day that causes every person in France to hold their breath. And every year the Dupain-Cheng family has been lucky enough to feel relief because Marinette hasn’t been Selected. But every year the odds against Marinette increase; Sabine had cried aloud last year when the Selection had ended because Marinette had not been chosen.

The Akuma Games would do that to any person.

She takes a deep breath before shaking her head, allowing determination to replace the fear. A step creaks as Marinette treads down the stairs, following her mother’s path minutes later. Her father glances as she unceremoniously announces her presence with the loud noise. He beams at her as his mustache twitches. Despite the bakery being closed today, flour decorates his cheeks.

“This dress is definitely better than last year!” he informs her, clapping his giant hands together. “I think you finally found the best shade of pink in the district.”

The dress that Marinette wears today is simpler compared to previous years. It is pink, just as it has been since her first ceremony when she was eight. Nine years later, the girl continues making and editing her own dresses, including the modern-styled cheongsam dress that she has chosen to wear today. Except there is one issue.

Marinette’s hands tug at the plain pink skirt before raising an eyebrow at him. “But it’s the same one I wore last year, Papa.” This is the first Selection where she hasn’t altered her own dress.

Her father quickly tries to argue the various way that the dress has changed, but Marinette shoots down every attempt with a small smile. Eventually her father gives up. “You still look beautiful, _mon enfant._ ”

Marinette leans forward to chastely kiss his cheek in her victory, reaching for a leftover roll from the previous day. “I gotta go,” she says quickly. Her parents exchange quick glances as she butters her bread. “I’ll see you guys at the ceremony later.”

Sabine stands by the counter, cleaning some of the bakery’s trays. “Marinette, why are you not spending the morning with us?” It sounds accusative as she calls her daughter out, and Marinette cringes. Her teeth clench together. The small woman was always adamant about spending the morning together on Selection day.

“I promised Manon I would help her get ready. It’s her first year and Mrs. Chamack will already be at the school.”

There is a heavy sigh. Sabine knows that Marinette’s decision cannot be swayed. “Papa and I will sit where we normally do. We’ll look for you.”

“Your grandma will also be there” Tom adds. Gina Dupain had been transferred to the Northern District shortly after Marinette had turned six. Residents were required to stay in their district unless specified, but Marinette’s grandmother received permission from her job so she could work in the south for the first week of the games. The woman acted as a promoter for the tributes, communicating with Central for them to receive sponsor gifts.

Marinette rushes to her mother and places a light kiss on her cheek. “I know. I’ll see you there!” she says as she swiftly leaves the bakery.

Silence hangs in the air as the couple are left alone. Sabine presses her lips together as she stares out the glass-window door, her lower lip threatening to tremble. The dish that she is holding slips under the soapy surface. A kitchen chair screeches across the linoleum before Tom places both of his hands onto her shoulders. The woman reaches up with a wet hand and gingerly holds it there. “Tom, I’m worried.”

“So am I,” he admits and tenderly squeezes her shoulder. Tom lets out a slow breath. “But it’ll be alright as long as we have hope. It always is.”

* * *

“I don’t like it.”

Skeptical about the comment, Marinette cannot help but to raise an eyebrow. “And why not? I worked forever on your dress.”

The seventeen-year-old girl places her hands on her hips as she stands behind Manon. Reflected in the mirror is an eight-year-old girl. Manon Chamack frowns at herself as she crosses her arms over her chest. She stomps her foot again for emphasis.

“I’m not a fairy. I wanted to be a fairy,” the girl whines. This is the first time that Manon is seeing her Selection dress, which Marinette had worked on for over two months after the girl’s mother had mentioned it. It had taken every little willpower for the young girl to not go into her mother’s room and sneak a look at the garment.

Manon turns on her heels and her frown growls at the teenager. “You told me I would be a fairy!”

Tongue clicking, Marinette shakes her head. “I said you would be a princess,” she argues. She freezes in place when the girl’s eyes grow wide and begin to tremble. Almost choking on a sharp intake of breath, Marinette glances away to force herself to break eye contact with Manon’s infamous baby doll eyes. “You should know that princesses are much better.”

The pleading look is replaced by curiosity. “Really?”

“Oh yes. Princesses can be created with determination and loyalty and kindness,” Marinette assures. Blue eyes glance back to the brown-haired girl as she leans closer. “There aren’t many girls like that, Manon. You’re one of a kind.” Excitement fills the younger girl’s face as her fingers rub along the edge of her new cotton dress. Marinette has succeeded. “Now spin for me and show what kind of princess you are.”

Wonder crosses Manon’s face as she once against stares at her reflection in the mirror. After taking a deep breath, she spins and watches the way the blue dress flies around her. The intricate flowers on the skirt are colorful and each individual color pops. A toothy grin flashes at Marinette as her lips playfully show her happiness. “You’re right, Marinette! I’m a princess like you!”

Pride swells in Marinette’s heart for a moment; she had spent so much time embroidering each individual detail. She had spent much of her free time completing this dress and ignoring her own.

But the warmth quickly dissipates. Once upon a time, Marinette had the same feeling of being a princess and was excited to wear a cute outfit for the Selection. Dresses and formal clothes weren’t very common in the districts and were only allowed in special circumstances like the Selection or events within Central. So when Marinette had gotten her first special dress, she had shown it to her friend, who had been chosen that same day to be a tribute. The odds were always against eight-year-old tributes; her friend had been killed the first night by having her face bashed in by a rock because she had cried during the training sessions.

Nightmares haunted Marinette for weeks after that.

“Nonsense, Manon,” she warmly regards. “I’m just a haggard old lady. You’re the only princess in all of Southern District! Everyone will be jealous when they see you.”

Manon’s mouth opens into a wide smile, revealing a gap of a recently lost tooth. “Deal! I’ll be the best princess. I’ll be so good that Central will just beg me to replace the president.”

Marinette giggles as she wraps an arm around the girl’s covered shoulder. “Don’t get too full of yourself, small fry. You gotta make it past your first ceremony and grow up a bit.” Manon sourly pouts as the older girl pulls on her shoulder, leading her away from the mirror. “We should get going. We don’t want to be late.”

Momentary fear appears on Manon’s face as she shakes her head wildly. “Oh no, please no. Mama would be so mad. She would ground me until the next Akuma Games.”

The older girl erupts into a fit of laughter. “Or your last!” she jokes. She lets go of Manon who tries to push her. Marinette walks to the entryway of the Chamack residence and grabs Manon’s black jacket, throwing it to the girl before covering her own shoulders with a shawl.

“Come on, slowpoke, let’s get going.”

* * *

Despite her forced cheery disposition, Marinette cannot help the dread hovering in the pit of her stomach. Her lips curl in distaste as she holds a hand to it, grimacing at the feeling. People walk by the two girls, haste in their step, as they make their way into the school’s auditorium. Normally the school is buzzing with excited chatters and laughter; Marinette likes sitting in here during lunch to watch the theatre kids act. But people are quiet today and they whisper amongst themselves in the stands.

There is no hope today.

Her clammy hands grow cold as she finally releases Manon’s hand, their conversation growing scarce and quiet. Marinette stands there as she stares down at the carpeted floor. Manon tilts her head to the side, asking Marinette if everything is okay.

“My stomach is just hurting,” Marinette says. It’s aching with nervousness and fear. “Why don’t you go stand with your classmates?”

Manon nods before looking around, glancing at everything. Golden-brown eyes take in the sight of the large crowd, bigger than anything the girl had seen before. Hesitation keeps the girl from moving. She stands in her spot as she sneaks a glance at the older girl. Her breathing slows as she frowns, her front teeth disappearing behind her lips. “Marinette, will everything be okay?”

The girl’s fear is understandable, and Marinette grimaces at the sharp pain in her stomach. She forces a smile as she nods at the girl, clasping her shoulder. “I promise you that everything will be okay. You won’t be chosen.”

Young eyes widen. The realization normally doesn’t click with children until they finally attend the Selection. “But what if I am?”

“The chances are slim. You’ll be okay. Alright?”

Uncertainty shows Manon’s concern and worries, but she slowly nods as she gives a small smile. “I should go then. You promise you’ll get me later?” Marinette nods, and Manon takes the cue to run off and disappear into the sea of young children.

Humming softly, Marinette glances around the school’s auditorium as she searches for her parents. Admittedly, she usually forgets where they sit, even though her mother swears that they are always in the same seats. From her place on the floor, which had been cleared for all the people, Marinette can see parents hugging their children before they separate for the day. There are mixed emotions between every group. Some departures are quick without any lingering emotions, and these appear hopeful—almost acting as a promise to reunite in the next few hours.

However, other partings are meant to be a goodbye. These groups do not want to risk the separation becoming a reality, their last moments together being under the watchful eyes of Central and the French residents. Marinette watches as these families linger in the warmth and touch of one another before separating, eyes keeping contact before being forced to look away so they can take their places. A mother cries as she watches her two children walk towards the floor, a guard forcing her to remain behind the barriers that separates the children and everyone else.

These sights fill Marinette with more dread, and she wonders if she has time to rush to the toilets and get sick. A nagging voice in the back of her mind reprimands her neglectful attitude toward her parents this morning. Another voice argues that she couldn’t leave Manon to fend for herself during her first event—the girl has never been good with remembering things. The guards would have found a way to make her pay the price for missing this national ceremony.

Marinette should have just asked Manon to spend the prior night with her and the Dupain-Chengs, but the girl didn’t want to intrude on Nadja’s time with her daughter.

After a few minutes of looking, Marinette finally spots her parents towards the back-right corner. There is enough distance to keep Marinette from lamely running towards them and throwing her arms around their necks before the ceremony begins. But the girl is old enough to know better; that behavior is typically frowned upon.

Her parents are dressed for the occasion—her mother wears a white qi pao and her father sports black pants and his normal white shirt. Today he isn’t wearing an apron, and Marinette wonders how long it took her mother to discover his attempt to smuggle it into the Selection. Beside them is her father’s mother; she leans back in her chair, showing off her black pantsuit and matching sunglasses.

Gina Dupain is the first to notice Marinette, lowering her sunglasses for a better look. She removes them and waves excitingly with her other hand. The woman’s excitement makes it seem like she has forgotten the purpose of today’s occasion; despite the hanging dread, Marinette’s grandmother is just excited to have the family together again.

Warmth envelops Marinette when she sees her father raise a hand to greet her, his mustache shifting as he smiles at her. The Selection always brings out the best and worst emotions, even without uttering any words. Love, fear, regret. Each emotion shows on her father’s face. She hopes that her returned smile can also relay each emotion and much more.

The warmth almost falters when her eyes lock with her mother’s. An invisible force tugs at her heart the longer she stares at her. A foreboding feeling makes her wish that she had spent just an extra minute to hug her this morning. Sabine smiles and mouths something to the girl. This time her heart tugs with overwhelming tenderness.

“I love you too,” Marinette whispers, over-enunciating the words so her mother’s fading sight could catch the simple gesture. A faint smile appears on her mother’s face.

The lights flicker, indicating that there are ten minutes before the ceremony starts. Marinette nods her head towards her family before turning around to join the other teenagers her age. It doesn’t take long to find them; this year, everyone is separated based on their ages; Marinette and her classmates are towards the back. She joins the group and looks around. She can see her physics partner, a lean boy with a mop of blond hair. Towards the edge of the group is a black-haired girl who used to pull Marinette’s hair back in elementary school before she had chosen to cut it short.

“Nathaniel!” Marinette catches the bright orange hair of her longest friend and classmate. Her whisper is loud enough to make him turn around without disturbing anyone else.

It takes a moment for Nathaniel to find her, his mop of hair moving wildly as he shakes his head. The boy smiles warmly at her as she approaches him as he releases a breath. “I was getting nervous. You’re cutting it close, aren’t you?”

Marinette quietly laughs. “What’s wrong with being a little risky?” she jokes. “We all need to live on the edge sometimes. Live a little dangerously.”

Teeth clench together as turquoise eyes widen. “Don’t let Central hear you say that,” he says. Marinette clicks her tongue and he relaxes; he knows her jokes well enough, but the boy is reacting first and then thinking. He raises his hand to his chin and strokes it, playing along now. “If anybody hears you say that, they’ll botch the system, so you’ll be forced to be a tribute.”

“You better knock on wood,” she warns, rapping a loose fist against his shoulder. Nathaniel grins at her reaction and leans away from her as she jostles him more. “You better not have jinxed me get-“

Static crackles across the intercoms before blaring alive with ceremonious trumpets. Marinette steps away from Nathaniel and stiffens, arms lowering to her sides. The redhead beside her bites his lip before his eyes cast downward. Everybody in the auditorium becomes silent and the energy disappears.

The Selection is beginning.

The room darkens as the screen turns on. A white butterfly flies in from the corner of the screen as it flitters toward the audience before spreading its wings in the center of the monitor. Trumpets parade as the words “Southern” appear under the insect. White butterflies are the symbol of France, a reminder of hope. Central officials have dictated that citizens must hang butterfly flags each Akuma games to show pride for their country. If a person ever forgets—like her father almost had this morning—the repercussions would be disastrous.

Bodies slowly walk from the back to the front of the stage and down the steps, taking their places down on the floor. Influential figures of the district, including past victors, stand in front of chairs; their backs face the children as they face the stage. It has been roughly nine years since a tribute from the Southern District has won the games. Clara Nightingale had survived by tricking a tribute from the West to eat poisonous berries that took a while to affect him. A few months after she had won the games, she had become a national singing sensation and has become very popular across France.

Marinette always wondered how victors could forget the tribulations they faced with the games. The girl is still proud of her country and wouldn’t talk bad about it. But how could someone forced to fight a dangerous game learn to trust Central so easily? The promise of fame and fortune and a comfortable life must be too tempting to winners.

The trumpets finally die as a voice beckons the audience over speakers. “Past victors may now take their seats.”

A spotlight appears on the stage as Nadja Chamack stands front and center, smiling at her fellow citizens. Marinette applauds silently to herself, her hand tapping against her leg in a fit of jitters and appraisal. The two had become close enough for the woman to trust her to babysit her daughter over the years. When it comes to the games, Marinette can never find it in her bones to hate her; Nadja works with her full potential.

“Hello everyone, and welcome to the start of the 92nd annual Akuma Games! I’m Nadja Chamack,” the woman introduces. “And I’m here as the Southern District’s escort to select our tributes for the year.” She smiles into the sea of silence as the lights turn back on and the room is lit once again. “The Akuma Games hold a long and rich history in France, and it’s because of these games that we thank the Founders for its creation. Without this event, our country would have continued to be plagued by the terrible akuma force.”

The escort takes a deep breath as she claps her hands together. One night while Marinette was at the Chamack residence, she had watched Nadja work on her speech in a mirror. The woman continued to trip over her words, but she must have figured everything out because she manages to keep her composure today. Nadja continues to explain the games and their yearly history as the same video from previous years plays on the giant screen. Marinette tunes it out; everybody knows the stories about the dreadful games and their feat in helping make the dark butterflies disappear. People have long stopped protesting the game, sacrificing their children just to stop dark demons.

An akuma hasn’t been seen since. The Games must be working.

Marinette focuses on the shape of her shoes. How could she have worn the wrong shoes? Where were her cute flats?

The video finally finishes and Nadja directs her attention back to the audience. “Now we begin the Selection Process. These five tributes will serve as peacekeepers and lights of hope for the future. Each one will encompass the white butterfly that represents our beloved country and remind us the importance of hope during these dark days to come.”

A man walks onto stage and holds his head low as he pushes a cart. Every person’s name, those between eight and nineteen, are in the bowl. “Alright, silence everyone.” The room is already quiet, but this is protocol. Nervousness shows through Nadja’s composure as her hand scoops a piece of paper out of the bowl.

“Théo Barbot!” Nadja calls out. The boy steps forward, his eyes square. Marinette watches as he spits out a stick as he makes his way to the stage. He is older than Marinette; she wonders if he is possibly in his last year. Nadja nods at him. “May hope be upon you,” she announces before pulling out another slip.

“Myléne Hapréle!” Bluebell eyes widen as Marinette glances towards a familiar girl with dyed hair of various colors. The short girl holds a hand to her chest before making her way towards the stage. By no means are the two considered best friends, but Marinette has been in the girl’s homeroom since they were both eleven. Myléne had frequently spent nights at Marinette’s home and always seemed so happy. The girl looks defeated now.

Marinette takes a breath and slowly exhales. The middle of the Selection is always difficult. While the danger is already half over, it is too early to feel any relief. The middle of the process just means that your odds are decreased.

Never does Marinette think that she or her beloved are safe from the Selection. But she still tries to stay hopeful. The country believes it to be a powerful weapon, and it’s a notion that she can stand behind. But that hope quickly turns to fear when she hears a name that she has never wanted to hear Selected. “Nathaniel Kurtzberg!”

The girl instinctively grabs for Nathaniel’s hand and holds it tightly. Her eyes keep forward, afraid to glance at her friend and show her fear. Or worst: see his. Nadja repeats the name, and people glance in their general direction. Her breaths are now haggard, and she is unable to breathe through her nose. Warmth envelops her hand as she feels Nathaniel squeeze her hand, but the moment he lets go—a truly lingering moment for Marinette—she can feel ice consuming her body. Through her peripheral vision, she can see him leaving his spot beside her and disappearing.

She stands alone, empty space beside her. The bluenette doesn’t dare look at the stage to see her friend’s fate. Honestly, she would cry aloud if she did. Wail, probably, loud and ugly for everyone in France, even the Northern District, to hear.

The fourth tribute is another kid that Marinette is familiar with, though she almost misses his name. She doesn’t know the kid well, but she knows him enough to know that he’s a year younger than her and Nathaniel. But there’s another thing she knows for certain: Marc Ansiel wouldn’t last long. But neither would Nathaniel or Myléne. All three of them are too weak-willed for this competition. Most people are.

“And now the moment that we have all waited for: our miraculous district’s last tribute!” Nadja pauses as she looks at the four teenagers on stage before focusing her attention on the giant bowl. She closes her eyes and as she mutters something under her breath before her hand dives into the it.

Marinette finds herself holding her breath when Nadja removes the last piece of paper. There is a chance that she could be chosen because of her age; the slips do add up over the years. Or even worst—what if someone that she cares for is chosen? Well, Nathaniel was already chosen. And Myléne, though Marinette didn’t particularly _care for_ her like she did her friend. But what if someone else was added?  Only one person could be victorious. The girl wouldn’t be able to hope for two dear people to survive.

For the first time since Marinette has been old enough to remember the Selection, Nadja is quiet. A hand covers her mouth as she stands on stage, eyes watering as she stares at the slip in front of her. “The Southern District’s final tribute is Manon Chamack.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far. Let me know what you think and I can't wait to see you later.
> 
> Until next time!  
> KaidaThorn


	2. Fear and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette volunteers for Manon on impulse and eventually says goodbye to her family. 
> 
> The Southern Tributes get on a train heading for Central, and Marinette almost needs an idol of hers.
> 
> Marinette and Nathaniel watch the other district Selections to gauge their competition, but Marinette is focused on other things than the Games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh! Thank you so much for the hits, the kudos, the comments, and the bookmark! That made for an amazing start to my Spring Break.
> 
> I just want to say that this will be vastly different from the original Hunger Games that we all know and love. The only similarity is the strong female lead, but there are no character correlations. There may be some plot correlation, but it makes sense for this type of fic!

Every year when the Games return to France, Nadja Chamack is required to travel to Central with the Southern Tributes. The time always varies between three and six weeks. Once there was an instance when the games lasted ten weeks because there was a stalemate; the children had to recuperate and regain their strength before the bloody ending.

During the Games, the Dupain-Cheng family would take in her daughter. Manon had become an integral part of the family, and the familiarity extended throughout the year. Though Marinette had never asked for one, she considered the girl to be a sister and she cared deeply for her. At times, the teenager had become overzealous with protecting the young girl from various dangers.

Like the reality of the Games.

When Manon was six, she had enjoyed watching the event’s first week, seeing various outfits being designed and worn. Sabine had been hesitant about allowing the young girl watch television; she was worried Manon would become attached to Tributes who would eventually not hold a place in the world. Tom assured there would be no harm. Except curiosity got the better of the young girl. On the Games’ opening night, the two girls were distracted with dolls in their room, but Manon disappeared. Marinette found her ogling the family television from behind the couch, the tributes standing on pavilions as the countdown began.

Marinette screeched the girl’s name from the stairs. She lunged toward the girl and quickly covered her ears, turning her from the screen. Tom had been surprised from the sudden outburst. He stared dumbfoundedly as his daughter pulled the struggling child up the stairs. Manon cried out in protest. The man ignored the First Massacre that fell death to his ears.

Manon had been confused and scared by Marinette’s rage and anger after she had been pulled upstairs.

“Why can’t I watch?” Manon wailed. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she whimpered. “I wanted to see their outfits and see what they were doing. Jessi-“

“You wouldn’t understand, Manon!” Marinette interrupted, raising her voice. “You’re too young. This is grow-up stuff that little girls can’t understand!” The two were quiet for the rest of the night. The bluenette had been unable to sleep as she listened to the girl’s whimpers throughout the night.

Manon’s favorite tribute had died during the First Massacre. The young girl never found out.

* * *

Two years later, Marinette still believes that Manon is too young. But at the ripe age of eight, the girl’s opinion doesn’t matter. France dictates eight is a suitable age for a tribute.

Time seems to stop as Marinette stands in the audience. She can’t even tell if she’s in the auditorium anymore. Is the Selection still happening? The group on stage seems to become distant until she can barely see Nathaniel’s figure. Silence is deafening and it pounds in her ears.

How can nothing be so loud?

“-Volunteering?”

Everything spins around her, and she fears she might vomit. When did Marinette become so cold? The spot on the floor is perfectly suitable and could use color. There is no chance for Marinette to make it to the bathrooms during the ceremony.

“Would anyone be interested in volunteering?”

The question snaps Marinette back to reality. No longer can she focus on the spot on the floor, and she is no longer floating. Quick blinking reminds her of her location. This isn’t a dreadful nightmare. Urgency forces her to focus her attention to the stage. There are two guards. One stands next to Nadja, keeping a foot behind her. Another guard towers over Manon as she presses into Marc’s side; she holds his hand as dulled, teary eyes bear into the audience.

“Please,” Nadja begs. Her voice cracks under the pressure, and her make-up is no longer perfect. “Please, would anyone like to volunteer?”

It is always customary for the escort to ask for volunteers after Tributes had been Selected. Some child looked for glory. Other wanted to help the unfortunate. Never had an escort looked so desperate.

“I’m begging you,” she mouths. Her voice falls to deafened ears. It’s heart-breaking, solely because she announced her own child’s death. No other family in the country can beg for volunteers like this. It isn’t fair. No one will volunteer.

Nadja takes a shaking breath after a few silent moments. She lowers her eyes and blinks them. Her smile is fake when she holds her head high. Practice of forcing happiness and excitement makes perfect. Defeat is evident in her slacked shoulders. “Then I would like to-”

“Wait, stop!” Marinette doesn’t recognize her own mousy voice that screeches from the crowd. Salt lines stain the girl’s face, and she can feel more tears forming. She pushes past her classmates as she rushes to the aisle. The girl almost trips. Determination keeps her upright. “I volunteer for tribute!”

There are murmurs amongst everyone as she moves towards the stage. Nadja blinks in admonished surprise. Something compels Marinette to repeat her declaration, the murmurs loudly filling the auditorium.

Everything is jarring as she finally stumbles onto stage. When did she start floating? Is she even floating? The girl coughs and tries to calm her screaming lungs. Nadja whispers her name as Marinette heaves heavy breaths. The woman’s words fall deaf to the girl’s ears.

“I volunteer as tribute for Manon Chamack!”

Volunteers used to be rare. People normally only volunteered for family members. And if people knew Marinette, they would know she doesn’t care for glory.

“Wait, Marinette, you don’t-”

“Manon, get off stage.” Marinette is quick to interrupt the younger girl, her stare hard and cold as she holds her head high. The work is already done, and Manon cannot argue. Marinette cannot falter. If she looks at Manon, the young girl will see trembling lips and irregular breathing.

Manon opens her mouth to speak again. “Manon, get off this stage. _Now_.” Nadja Chamack is more demanding than Marinette. The woman stares at her daughter and jerks her head toward the steps.

The girl opens her mouth to speak before a guard grabs her and yanks her roughly offstage. Resistance is futile. Marinette takes a deep breath and averts her stare while Nadja closes her eyes. Manon screams in the distance, loudly crying for the two, until a door slams shut. They room is quiet once more, but Marinette imagines the girl still wailing and begging for her help.

Marinette wants to fill the silent void by crying. She regrets her decision and wishes she could reverse time. She wants to cry for Manon, probably scarred for life. Will she finally understand the games now? She wants to sob for her parents—oh god, her parents; they probably already rejoiced and cried together.

Damn the baker’s daughter for throwing this happiness away.

She messed everything up.

“Volunteer, would you like to introduce yourself?” Nadja asks after a moment.

Marinette’s head lowers and her chin trembles once more. She gulps some air before turning around to finally face the audience. Tear prick the corners of her eyes. She nods as she smiles, wondering where the camera is. “My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng, and I will be one of your tributes for this year’s Games.”

Nadja takes a deep breath before licking her lips. Marinette joins the line of tributes and glances at Nathaniel. The boy’s face is red. The woman asks if there are any more tributes, but no one volunteers. No one has the nerve. There is no bravery. Yet Marinette feels that she has neither of these.

Here she is, though. She calls it stupidity.

“Then I would like to welcome the Southern Tributes to the 92nd annual Akuma Games! May your hopes be strong and carry your through the Games.”

* * *

After the ceremony, the five tributes were quickly whisked away. Everything happened in a blur. But maybe Marinette was only trying to gather her bearings.

The silence is now unbearable as she waits alone in a room. It reminds her of a funeral procession. Marinette gulps. Why is she here? Are they prematurely killing her?

The door to the room opens, and there stands both of her parents. The dam finally breaks, and Marinette’s lips begin to tremble as her eyes quickly fill with tears. This is her goodbye. She will never see them again. The three of them close the gap, hastily moving toward each other until they are engulfed within one another’s arms.

Marinette cries aloud against her mother’s qi pao. She attempts to ball the fabric together and hold onto it. Sabine, with her body flushed against her daughter’s, rubs the back of her head; she incoherently whispers Chinese as she rubs it. Her voice is shaking. Tom stands there in silence, keeping composure as he holds his two girls.

“I’m so sorry,” Marinette finally mutters. “That was stupid for me to do, and I know-“

“We’re so proud of you,” Sabine proclaims.

The words echo in Marinette’s ears. She pulls away and stares at both parents. “Proud? Why?”

“Nobody in all of France is as brave as you,” Tom says. “Mon enfant, you volunteered to save a girl’s life. A random girl. With no connection to you. You gave her a chance.”

“Until she’s selected next year,” Marinette bitterly responds. There is no protecting Manon next year.

“And that is something we will deal with then,” Tom says. “Nadja, Manon, you…”

Marinette blinks. A few tears fall. “Why me?”

“Because we firmly believe that you have what it takes to win this game,” Sabine says.

Marinette looks between her parents. Confusion crosses her features as she skeptically knits her brows together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re smart, resourceful, cunning,” Tom explains. Marinette’s head tilts to the side, trying to make reasonable sense of the proclamation. “Once you get the chance to practice and prepare, you’re going to be a worthy adversary for anyone.”

“But I’m just an ordinary girl,” Marinette argues.

“So are all the other Tributes. Not many people get specialized training before the Games. Just remember that,” Tom says. Mustached lips brush against his daughter’s temple, chastely kissing the girl. Many children from two districts have the special opportunity, but Marinette will not argue the point now. “Promise you’ll remember that.”

A voice grunts from the doorway. The guard taps his wrist.

“And promise you’ll keep hope. Many children begin to lose their hope after the third day,” Sabine explains. “If you can make it to the fourth day and hold onto the hope, then you’ll already have an advantage over everyone.”

Tears begin to well once more in Marinette’s eyes, blurring her vision. Lips press together and she nogs, keeping her bearings together. The guard pesters her parents and stomps towards the pair. Marinette’s eyes widen as she grabs her mother’s hand, firmly holding it.

“Come on. We need to keep this going,” the guard says, leading Sabine and Tom out the room.

Marinette treks along, desperately and awkwardly holding her mother’s hand. “Mamon, Papa, I love you guys!” she cries. “Please don’t leave!”

Sabine turns around, and Marinette flinches upon seeing the tears staining the woman’s face. “We will meet again,” her mother says before the guard closes the door.

Marinette is left alone again.

Seconds pass before Marinette’s legs give up and she crumbles. She hunches over and bawls. The girl doesn’t notice open. Thin arms wrap around her shoulders.

“You need to stay strong, Marinette,” a voice warns.

Through tear-filled eyes, the girl blinks as she stares at her grandmother. The woman kneels in front of her, holding the girl by her shoulders. They stare at each other.

If you’re just giving up, then let me tell my brother,” Gina says. “I don’t want to, but I’d rather not give Tom any false hope or anything.”

Marinette’s mouth dries at her grandmother’s comment. “Why would you do that? That would destroy him!”

“So would seeing his daughter in here crying over her woes,” Gina retorts. “With the way things are, the dominos will take effect.”

Raising her shawl, Marinette wipes away the tears. More quickly replace them and she wipes again. “No, no,” she repeats, shaking her head. She wipes her eyes a third time. “I will not be giving up. I will remain hopeful.”

Gina smiles. “That’s my girl. Now do your best and listen to your mentor when you choose one. Make the country love you, and you’ll get plenty of sponsors. That’s when I come to help.”

Eyes puffy and red, Marinette stares at her grandmother. Her eyes catch the light, and she gives a single nod. They stare at each other before Gina engulfs the girl into a tight hug, and Marinette returns it. No words are said as Gina Dupain pulls away, stands up, and walks out the room.

Marinette’s heart is heavy and it dully thuds. She slowly stands to her feet as she takes a deep breath through her nose. Calm and controlled. There is nothing more important than remaining collected. These games will not defeat her.

She isn’t surprised when the door opens again, and Manon runs in with her mother following close behind. The younger girl jumps at Marinette with outstretched hands, and the older girl manages to keep them both upright as they hug. Determination. Keep her wits.

“Why did you do it, Marinette?” Manon sniffles. She clings to the older girl though Marinette tries to pull away.

The older girl gives up the struggle and tightens the hug. Her eyes open as she strokes Manon’s hair. Blue eyes meet Nadja’s brown eyes. There’s an unspoken conversation, and the two nod at one another. “I just had to, Manon.”

“Are you going to ear pretty clothes? Like everyone else?” Manon asks after she pulls away. She sucks in a breath. Marinette nods. The younger girl smiles. The brunette is excited, but her smile fades as her eyes glance away. “Are you going to die?”

Marinette’s forced smile fades, and Manon’s face follows. “I-I’ll try to win.”

“Can’t you just do it? Can’t you promise to win?”

“It’s not that easy, honey,” Nadja says. “She can’t promise-”

“I promise I’ll try. And I won’t go down without a fight,” Marinette declares. She pushes her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m not giving up.”

* * *

“Why did you do it?” Nathaniel asks.

Everyone takes a bus from the school to the city’s station so they can board a train. Marinette was nearly last to enter the train and plopped into the seat beside her orange-haired friend. He couldn’t run away. The bus ride had been silent except for the guards at the very front of the bus, but then the boy broke the silence.

“Why do you think?” she responds.

Nathaniel nods, keeping his eyes forward. He mutters something under his breath, unbeknownst to Marinette. His eyes glance at his reflection in the bus’s window. He watches the passing Akuma Flags—white butterflies surrounded by a bright purple background. They remind the country of hope after the Akuma’s disappearance after the Ninth Games; they’ve been a tradition since.

Marinette notices familiar warmth, and a quick glance confirms that Nathaniel is holding her hand. She glances away from him and smiles, but then she finds herself staring at Myléne’s who sits adjacent to her. She sits alone. Marinette squeezes Nathaniel’s hand. She cannot imagine being alone right now.

The trip doesn’t last much longer before the bus parks. Guards escorts everyone off the bus. Marinette waits for everyone to pass her before shuffling out her seat and off the bus. The bluenette always wanted to ride a train, but never did she think it would be for this occasion. She begins walking but stops after hearing a clatter behind her.

“Oh, monsieur!” The girl doesn’t hesitate to approach the elderly gentleman after she realizes he had fallen. Nathaniel follows. “Are you okay?”

The gentleman kneels on the ground with his cane a couple feet away. Marinette offers him an arm, and together both she and Nathaniel help the man up. The man brushes off his red floral shirt before smiling appreciatively at the two tributes. “Thank you, both. It appears my old legs are getting the best of me.”

Marinette laughs. The distraction lightens her mood. “That’s okay, no worries. The Games bring out the disasters in every person in France. It happens.”

The man nods. “True. However, despite the dangers and woes, it’s important for us to remember that disaster comes from careless talk. Now, Marinette-” He pauses and bows his head when he is handed his cane. He leans onto it, still smiling. “Thank you, Nathaniel. Now, Marinette. Your volunteer was not careless, so it will not lead to disaster.”

The man is too certain, and it catches Marinette off-guard. She had spoken rashly, without thinking. Her actions were careless. But the man does have a point. The volunteer, itself, was not pointless. “I guess you’re- Wait! How do you know our names?”

“It’s my job to know,” the man says. “It’s the job of a mentor. Besides, all of France will know your names by now.”

It was a stupid question. “Oh, right,” Marinette mutters. Her cheeks turn red.

Nathaniel turns away and covers his mouth, pressing his lips together as he sucks in a breath. “Especially you, Marinette,” he says. Faint laughter can be heard in his voice. “Everybody talks about volunteers.”

“Everybody, please hurry up!” Nadja calls out. Her eyes narrow from the distance as she places her fists on her hips. “Fu, you know we have a strict schedule!”

Fu strokes his beard before closing his eyes and walking forward. “We must go. There is no use dawdling when Nadja is concerned.” His eyes glint as he passes the teenagers. “Determination suits her. She always gets her way, even when we think we have the upper edge. We cannot argue with her.”

It does not take long for everybody to board the train before it quickly takes off. The jolting causes Marinette to catch her balance as she leans against the wall. She probably would have fallen if Nathaniel wasn’t here to catch her. She gives him a small smile.

Then she sees bright light. And she looks out the window. For a moment she is in awe, watching the changing scenery. Everything flitters by before it jumbles into one jumbled image, but the colors are mesmerizing. As an artist she is awestruck.

As a person, she can feel butterflies in her stomach. Excitement. Fear. All the emotions boil in her stomach as the mixed emotions try to flee.

But it’s overall nice.

Guards beckon Marinette and Nathaniel and lead them into a room. There are two guards, the other tributes, and Nadja. The guards acting as escorts nod before backing out of the room and sliding the room’s door shut.

“This won’t take long, everyone,” Nadja starts. Marinette looks around and sees Myléne sitting alone on a couch with Théo standing beside her. Marc, sitting in a small armchair, offers an equally small smile to Nathaniel and Marinette as they approach him. “We will arrive in Central in the morning, so feel free to spend your time whatever you want. Food will be available in a few hours, and drinks are available upon request,” Nadja explains.

“What about your mentors?” Théo asks. “I want to start talking with them. Planning stuff.”

“Many mentors prefer to take this time to gather their bears and get into the mindset for the Games. You may approach them and converse, but please do not barrage them with questions. Everyone can choose their mentors after opening ceremonies when we get to our suite in Central.”

Nadja glances around the room and forces a smile for the solemn teenagers. Théo chews his finger nail as his leg bounces. “I recommend that you take this time to enjoy yourselves. The ride to Central is quite a sight, especially once we arrive in West District. The water there is vastly different than the shores you may be familiar with.” She pauses and presses her lips together. “I also recommend watching the other Selections if you are feeling ambitious. This will give you a chance to perceive the other tributes and formulate possible alliances you may be interested in.”

Myléne shifts uncomfortably in her spot.  Her eyes cast sideways as she rests her chin upon her propped hand. Marc rubs his hand together, keeping his eyes downcast. Nadja’s smile fades. “Then I will see you all again once we arrive in Central. Meeting adjourned.”

After Nadja leaves, it doesn’t take long for Myléne and Théo to rush off.

“We should find a compartment,” Marinette suggests. Nathaniel nods, and the girl turns her attention to the other boy in the room. “Do you want to come with us.”

Marc opens his mouth before closing it. “That, uh- that may not be so good. I think, I’ll, uh- I think I’ll prefer to be alone for a bit.”

“Maybe we can meet up for dinner?” Nathaniel offers. The younger boy presses his lips together before slowly nodding. The orange-haired boy raises his hand before turning towards the way they came and leaving the boy alone.

Curiosity catches Marinette’s attention as she passes various compartments. Each one is decorated differently, providing a different vibe from the atmosphere. Many are occupied by guards, too many for Marinette’s comfort. One compartment makes her freeze as she walks by.

It’s Jagged Stone.

At first a small excitement swells in her chest. She’s so close to one of her idols. Marinette could squeal. Then her smile falters from conflicted feelings.

In front of him is half a bottle of alcohol. This couldn’t possibly be in his possession when they arrived at the station. The guards took away any unnecessary belongings when they boarded the bus, including Théo’s stash of suckers. The rock star picks up his tiny glass and slams it down after downing the murky beverage. Glass clinks against wood, and Marinette momentarily worries the glass shatters. Jagged pours himself another drink and stares hazily at it.

Marinette blinks in confusion. She is an avid follower of his television appearances, but alcohol has always been a controversial subject for him. Many fans believe him to be a hardcore partier, but he always scoffed during interviews whenever alcohol was mentioned. The man was normally proud and expressive. Now he appears broken and defeated.

It’s heart-breaking.

“Marinette, there’s an open compartment here,” Nathaniel calls.

Marinette panics and sidesteps from the door, pressing her back against the adjacent wall. Her mind races. Would it matter if Jagged noticed her? Probably not, but this is an overthought conversation she doesn’t want to have.

“Marinette?”

“Coming!” Marinette cries, her voice cracking. Nathaniel stares at her with a raised brow before entering his compartment, and Marinette soon follows.

It doesn’t take long for the male to pass out, exhausted from his own stress and anxieties. The lulling promises beckon Marinette, but she knows she wouldn’t be able to sleep later if she does now. Besides, her nerves are currently running amok and are unable to calm. She searches through the monitor’s system, trying to find the Selection. If only Nadja instructed the tributes how to navigate the system.

Weight falls onto her shoulder as Nathaniel leans against her as she sleeps. Marinette sighs before relaxing her tensed shoulders so he could be more comfortable. Honestly, this is more comfortable for her too.

After a few minutes, she finally finds the Games. She slowly inhales through her nose as she begins focusing her concentration. This is the first time Marinette pays attention to the Selection. It didn’t matter before and she always brushed past the recordings. Now she desperately tries to figure the remote’s controls so she can analyze the tributes.

There are certain tributes that catch her attention.

Two Eastern tributes are volunteers. Both wear glasses: a boy with a hat and a girl with reddish-brown hair. The volunteers interrupted the Selection when the girl’s sister was chosen. This caused distress for the escort, visibly panicking and asking them to follow the process. They refused. Marinette’s brow furrows after the camera pans away, revealing all five tributes, because she didn’t remember the first one. The orange-haired girl, also wearing glasses, seemed invisible and overshadowed by the two volunteers. Marinette momentarily feels guilty for missing her Selection. Overall, she decides it’s irrelevant and it doesn’t matter. The girl is just another tribute.

North District normally provides winners. Something squeezes her heart as she begins worrying about the Tributes. Two tributes—a muscular olive-skinned boy and a short pink-haired girl—high five one another as they stand beside one another on stage. Her stomach sinks on the boy’s close-up. He’s undeniably good-looking and confident. The confidence could be either good or bad for her. She decides she doesn’t want to meet either of these tributes in the arena.

There are siblings from Eastern: a brother and a sister with vastly different colored hair. This is every parent’s nightmare, Marinette realizes, and she considers herself lucky to be an only child. This district also gives the youngest tributes for the year. He’s a small boy with hair like Marinette’s. It’s black with blue reflections. The boy could be eight, maybe nine. Marinette’s heart aches and she hastily avoid looking at the screen.

This could have been Manon if it wasn’t for Marinette.

Nathaniel shifts in his sleep, finally moving his head off Marinette. The girl groans at the freedom as she rolls her shoulder and stretches it. When she looks back at the screen, her district is broadcasting. It’s almost surreal watching this, knowing that she’s in the audience somewhere. She closes her eyes and rubs her hands over them. They open when she hears her outcry on the television.

She screams.

Nathaniel bolts upright, his arms flailing because of the sudden noise. “What!? What’s going on?” he incoherently asks, swatting his hand and attempting to hit something.

“Is that really what I look like?” Marinette watches herself on the screen, already standing on the stage. Her bun-styled hair looks worn, probably ruined by the wind. Was it that windy earlier? The girl believed her outfit to be perfect when she woke up, despite it being secondhand from the previous year. But she notices imperfections littering the outfit.

And it was an old outfit. At this moment, she’s wearing an outfit that was in season _last year_.

This is a nightmare.

“I think you look fine,” Nathaniel comments. He places a hand on her shoulder as she tucks herself into a ball, bringing her knees up against her chest. He squeezes it lightly and offers a smile. “You’ll always be more critical of yourself. It’s how artists work.”

Marinette nods sully, burrowing her face. She mumbles something but she can’t even hear herself. It’s okay. She’ll move past it. But- No, it’s all fine. “Let’s just keep watching this.”

Central has always been a dignified district. The rich and the famous live here, and their lifestyles have always been lavished compared to the other districts. There were originally excused from participating in the Games. But after someone had declared an Akuma sighting right before the Ninth Games, the President declared that Central’s children would also be eligible for Selection.

The irony.

“The president’s daughter! Are you kidding me?” Marinette’s voice is shrill as the blonde approaches the stage. The girl’s head is held high. This is where every sponsorship would go. There will be no chance of Marinette, the plain and boring baker’s daughter, receiving any sponsors.

“Someone will probably volunteer for her. They always do,” Nathaniel says. The bluenette recalls hearing that the Bourgeois girl had been Selected four years ago but a tiny boy volunteered instead.

Marinette rubs a hand across her bangs and pushes them off her face as she stares the screen. Central’s Selection diminishes in excitement after a famous tribute.

Marinette can’t help but call out when she hears the last name.

“No!” She knows she shouldn’t be emotionally invested with people from other districts, but Marinette was like most teenage girls. Adrien Agreste is one of the most popular models in France, the son of a famous fashion designer. After his debut when she was thirteen, she was quick to develop a crush on him. The crush has diminished over the years, but a part of her will always acknowledge the boy’s good looks and kind nature.

And she’s going to have to face him. She might have to fight her stupid childhood celebrity crush.

“Marinette, are you okay?” Nathaniel asks. He’s startled by her sudden outcry. He keeps his hand close to his chest. His turquoise eyes are wide, shifting side-to-side from nerves.

Baby blue eyes widen as Marinette realizes her mistake. She glances at him and chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of her neck. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be fine? I’m just watching the tributes and the Selection and it’s weird to see all of them if you know what I mean.” She continues rambling into her knees so she can hide her fame. No longer can she understand her own words anymore. What is she even saying?

Time for her to forget this crush. It’s stupid, minimal, and non-existent. It doesn’t matter. She might not even have to face him. Someone may volunteer. She peeks at the screen and watches the camera pan to the tributes as they wait for volunteers. The Bourgeois girl is calm, collected, and confident. Adrien Agreste looks solemn, but his eyes are closed they open as he glances at the blonde. After a minute the escort announces the end of the Selection. The blonde’s composure disappears as she begins loudly crying, and Adrien leans over and rubs her shoulder.

Marinette lowers her head once again and bites her lip. There goes her wishful thinking. From the darkness of her lap, she knows that she cannot be judged or seen here. She wants to cry. She knows she needs a plan, but she cannot help but think of all the tributes and their stories. Their desires. Their dreams. Their fear and inevitable deaths. Even Nathaniel and her: at least one of them will die.

“I can’t believe how I looked!” she sobs. Marinette chokes on dry tears.

Nathaniel scoots closer to the girl and wraps an arm around her. She lifts her head and thumps it against him. Why should she care if anyone can see her?

My outfit was a disaster! How could it be like that? Why am I wearing something so old and cheap!” she continues. She’s grateful that the two are alone. And she’s thankful for the boy’s silence. This is a terrible coping mechanism, but it shifts her focus. She needs this before they get to Central.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter's end! The idea for Marinette's coping was inspired by a conversation I had with my roommate because everybody copes with things differently. Many people use other issues as a form of distraction, so it fits pretty well.
> 
> Can you guys guess the tributes that we mentioned. Bonus point to anyone that can guess the little boy tribute, who is an actual character!
> 
> If you guys have any questions or concerns then feel free to comment or message me! I am available to answer anything and everything.
> 
> Until next time!  
> KaidaThorn


	3. Glitter and Twirls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette becomes acquainted with Fu and tries to calm down. The Southern District arrives in Central and everybody meets their stylists. This year tributes are to wear outfits that reflect their parents' occupations for the Opening Ceremonies. This works well for Chloé Bourgeois and Adrien Agreste, tributes from Central with influential parents. But for a baker's daughter, how is Marinette supposed to leave an impression?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for the kudos and comments! They are truly inspiring and make writing this so fun, especially because the comments make this interactive for me. I recently got a kudo and that is what kickstarted me to finish this chapter. Look forward to some quicker updates in the future!

“Man, listen to him. He’s crazy!” Jagged comments, laughing aloud. The laughter abruptly stops as he leans closer to Marc, whose green eyes widen. “So tell me. Do you think of yourself as a man or a little boy? Because I can’t really tell. What do ya think, Clara?”

Marc slinks further into his seat, curiously close to Jagged’s, and presses his lips together. His shoulders slump. “I guess it depends on how you define them because they have very different contexts and can allude to different things.”

“An artist! So creative!” Jagged exclaims. He laughs aloud and slaps Marc on the back. He chokes air. Jagged quickly stands up, purposefully knocking his chair over and gaining looks from the other side of the table and the opposite side of the room. “I’ve decided your to be my protégé this year, and I- Ah, finally! More people have come to join us in our time of hunger. Sit down. Take a seat. Anywhere. Down here perhaps?”

Marinette stares into the dining corridor, staring ludicrously at the scene in front of her. By no means is anything out of the ordinary. Everybody is pleasant with another, enjoying themselves in the current moment. Jagged looks happier than earlier. Color fills his earlier dreadful and sullen cheeks.

“Obviously you know Clara. She’s the raddest friend a guy can get. Totally got me through some wicked mad shit during some victor parties,” Jagged explains. He bangs the table in excitement and pale gravy flies off onto the table’s ivory cloth. “And I assume ya know Marc here. He’s from your district after all. You seem close enough in age. Listen here, I’ve never seen such a quiet kid. And one with such creativity! It’s weird.”

Marc glances up hesitantly. “It’s not really weird,” he mumbles.

Clara ignores Jagged’s jabs and continues eating, hiding her playful smile. “You can choose to ignore him, Marc. He likes poking fun because it lightens the mood.” She rolls her eyes at the rock star. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

Marc looks towards Marinette and Nathaniel’s direction and mouths something. Nathaniel exhales and touches Marinette’s shoulder before walking briskly to the boy and sitting in the empty seat to his right. Marinette looks around, wondering where everybody else. Maybe they aren’t too hungry? Her stomach angrily rumbles at the preposterous notion, and she remembers that she hasn’t eaten. She’s absolutely famished.

She looks down the table and sees three other victors, huddle into an awkard huddle near Clara. One holds his place in his hand and laughs on his roasted potatoes. Closest to Marinette is Théo, who sits alone at the end of the table by the door. His eyes gloss over as he stares at his food, his lips loosely pressed together.

Marinette puts on a smile and sits across from the boy. “Hi, Théo.”

A brow raises and he casts a look at Marinette before turning his attention towards the food that’s been squished together on his plate. He mutters a quiet greeting, almost too quiet for the girl to hear. Marinette knits her eyebrows together as she studies him. She didn’t say anything wrong, did she?

She inhales deeply, smiling again. “What are you eating? It smells delicious!” she comments. When he doesn’t answer her, she looks around for something safe and familiar. Carefully she reaches for a piece of bread that is delicately tied into a green-speckled knot. It’s warm to the touch, and there’s the faint smell of garlic lingering. She brings a finger to her mouth as tastes butter. “I doubt it’ll be as good as Papa’s, but I’m sure it’ll be good. Have you tried it yet?”

Théo still doesn’t answer her. Jagged obnoxiously laughs aloud, and Théo’s attention turns towards him. He frowns when the man pulls Marc closer to him. “What an interesting kid we got over here. Kid has real talent. A natural!” Marc sucks in his lower breath as he blushes at the compliment, laughing lightly.

“Théo?” Marinette asks, trying to grab his attention. She reaches for him and tentatively touches his hand.

Brown eyes widen as Théo snatches his hand away. Marinette gasps at the sudden movement. The two stare at one another, Théo’s eyes narrowing at her, before he sighs defeatedly. “I-“ He glances at Marinette before turning his attention back towards Jagged. Everyone at the other end of the table laugh, enjoying their time together. Even Marc is a little more open, sporting a smile.

Théo lowers his head as he abruptly pushes away from the table and knocks his chair over. “I need to go!” he cries, hurriedly leaving the room. The room becomes quiet, staring at the ajar door, before the conversations continue.

Marinette’s hand rests on the table as she stares at the empty spot in front of her. Her other hand squeezes around the bread, squishing it in her grasp. She can feel little grains from the bread, some sort of seasoning. Salt, or perhaps the garlic she smelled. Her stomach growls at her with growing intensity as she continues staring at her, almost as if it’s ordering her to finally eat. Slowly she tears off a piece and takes her time chewing it before she swallows it.

She was right. This is not as good as Papa’s. Where’s the love? The pride? Still, she can’t be picky over silly things like bread, so she continues eating it.

Are her parents eating right now? Is her grandma with them or did she leave after Selection? The bread they’re eating must be better than this stuff she’s eating. But what if they weren’t eating because of the distress that she was causing them? Marinette chews her bottom lip anxiously. She can’t afford to think like this, yet she still feels guilty about eating.

If only she could eat with them.

“Marinette?” Baby blue eyes glance up and stare at the short, elderly man that she helped up earlier. His hands clasp around Théo’s previously fallen chair, almost as if he’s using the furniture to hold himself up. “Is the food not to your liking?”

Taken aback by the sudden question, Marinette’s eyes shift between the man and the bread she’s holding. “Oh, monsieur. It’s, uh-“ She stops. How does she explain her existential crisis brought about by a simple piece of bread? The food is lifeless compared to the one’s from the bakery that radiate love, home, and comfort.

He stares at her for a few seconds in silence. “Can I join you?” he asks after a moment. Marinette nods, and the man sits down. “Surely you will eat more than just a piece of a bread, will you not? I know that the food may be different than what you are used to, and you’re probably frightened and uncertain about the sudden changes in your life, but this is an opportunity to experience something new.”

“For instance, I enjoy coming to Central because I’m quite fond of this meat right here,” he explains. The man fills his plate with various foods and then cuts into the shriveled meat. “It may not look it, but the mutton is quite tender.” He takes a bite and hums with contentment.

Marinette places her bread onto her own plate and reaches for a small serving of the meat. The man takes another bite and watches Marinette expectantly as she takes a tentative bite. Her mouth waters as she chews it. Her hand covers her mouth as she swallows, taking a surprised breath. “This is so good!” She quickly takes another bite and pauses before she continues eating. “Thank you, Monsieur, um-“

“Fu,” the man answers. “Fu is just fine.” Fu leans onto the table and places a hand on it. His other hand fiddles with his bracelet. “Make sure you enjoy yourself, Marinette. I suspect we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the near future.”

“Right, right! Because you’re a mentor, and I’m a tribute, and you and all the offers mentor us advice.” Marinette pauses as a frown crosses her features. Something isn’t right. “I mean you mentors of advice.” Again, not right. “You give us tips,” she finally says, sagging her shoulders as she winces. She can’t even talk normally on the train. How will she fair in Central when she’s being interviewed?

Fu takes another bite. “Indeed,” he says, ignoring her mistakes. “We have all partaken in this horrid event. And many stumble to keep their bearings around them.” He glances at Jagged, and Marinette follows his gaze; the younger man takes a long sip from his cup and begins coughing. He nudges Marc and urges the boy to take a drink, but Marc politely declines.

“I’m sure you’ll see how many have been affected, so it’s best to help those around us, even if they are a stranger,” Fu says. He takes a short breath. “Such as I want to do with you and the other tributes.”

Marinette nods and frowns at her food. Her finger rubs along the grooves in her knife. “I have one question. For now, that is, if you don’t mind answering.” There is a moment of silence as her eyes shift towards him. He’s smiling. Waiting for her to continue. “Is it worth it to win?”

“A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song,” Fu recites. He smiles at the uncertainty on Marinette’s face, chuckling to himself. “Now tell me about yourself. Help an old man pass the time.”

* * *

“Welcome to Central, everyone! I know everything may be overwhelming, but you’ll soon get used to it,” Nadja says.

Overwhelming is an understatement. Marinette stares at the grandness of the towering and luxurious buildings as the tribute’s car drives through the district. Instead of common brick, the buildings are made with a shiny substance. Others with glass; Marinette can see the sky’s reflection on these buildings.

It would be impossible for Marinette to get used to Central. Everything is too big. And her time is too short.

“You five will soon be meeting your stylists. They’ve been hard at work preparing for the Opening Ceremonies. Many of them have been up all night even though many of you managed to sleep,” Nadja continues.

Marinette grimaces. She stayed up most of the night watching highlights from the past games to understand the best route for her training session; she needs to be ready for anything.

“How can they make our outfits without us there?” Myléne asks. “What if it doesn’t fit? Or it’s too big?” She stares at her hands on her lap.

“They received your measurements from your families back at home,” Nadja informs. Myléne astonishingly whispers something; her only family member is here with her as a victor, so she is rightfully confused. “It isn’t the best process, but it gets-“

“What’s our theme this year?” Marinette interrupts.

Nathaniel and Myléne both look at her with curiosity. Every year there are different themes for the Opening Ceremonies to showcase each tribute. More accurately, the themes represent a similar fashion trend to decision that becomes a challenge for many of Central’s designers. Oftentimes, each district is given a different color. One year, outfitters were inspired purely by popular food and the Southern District was stuck with croissants. It was actually horrible.

“The Gamemakers were quick to create a theme this year thanks to the tributes that twere selected this year and an influential input by our president. Outfits are based on occupations, primarily the jobs that your parents have.”

Bakers. What would this do for Marinette? Central has children of influential people, considering one of the influential people helped to pick the theme. How could the baker’s daughter compete against this?

If only Marinette had the ability to create her own outfit? Her nose crinkles in frustration. She wouldn’t be able to do any better with creating an idea in a short amount of time. Marinette sighs as she leans her head against the tinted windows of the vehicle, watching the passing buildings. The streets are littered with people, excitingly waving and gesturing towards them. Everyone is excited for the festivities. And Marinette cannot blame them.

A festival sounds great. The funeral that follows? Not so much.

* * *

 

Marinette clenches her teeth as the woman pulls away another wax-covered strip. The woman grimaces and places the strip on a table next to the previously used ones. “I’m sorry, Marinette,” she apologizes. “I’m trying to be careful.”

For the past forty minutes, Marinette followed every instruction that Mabel, one of her artists, had given. The skin around her eyebrows still itches and one of her legs still hurts from the furious scrubbing and the accidental cut another artist had given her.

“It’s okay, Mabel,” Marinette mumbles, pressing her lips together. She glances at the artist touching her feet. What are they doing? Will anyone see her feet? Her back straightens when she hears Myléne yelp from across the room.

Mabel reassuringly smiles at Marinette, a small dimple appearing on the right side of her face. “I promise that we’re almost done.” Her foot nudges the artist on the ground. “Shoo, shoo. Leave the poor girl alone. You’ve done enough work.”

She turns around bends over the table, and Marinette hears shuffling. The woman turns around with a flourish and covers Marinette with a drape. “I just need to fix your hair for a bit. Trim it, and then you’ll be ready for your stylist.”

Marinette takes a deep breath as Mabel begins working again. Another artist offers to get the short woman a stool, but she turns them away and claims that she can do this despite her hefty groans as she stretches. Mabel finally finishes and smiles in admiration before squeezing Marinette’s hand, giving her a few reassuring words before leaving.

The bluenette is left with only her thoughts and the sound of Myléne’s irritation. If Marinette’s nerves weren’t so bad, then she would be more concerned with her classmate’s wellbeing.

“No, I don’t have time for this right now. Listen you know- You’re annoying sometimes. You know you can’t come here. Why do you care which precious tribute is mine?”

The voice draws Marinette’s attention. Though it’s hushed, it seems louder because of the silence in the room. Marinette looks around and sees a tall cart coming towards her. “Jagged, no,” the voice continues, “Knock this off. I have to go. Yes, I’m meeting with my tribute. Mari- Okay, stop. I’m leaving. Bye.”

Jagged? The casualness to hearing his name catches Marinette off guard, her nose crinkling as she thinks about it.

The cart stops in front of her. A long bag hangs from it. “Marinette, right?”

“Uh, yes?”

A dark-skinned woman walks from behind the bag and rubs a hand across her purple pixie-cut hair. An earring on her right ear shines as it catches an overhead light. Her light brown eyes glisten as she smiles softly. “Phew! I was worried you were the girl who wasn’t ready yet. I would have screamed. If it was something, I was capable of. Screaming’s not really my style.”

The woman shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Penny,” she introduces, holding out a hand, “and I’ll be your stylist.”

“Nice to meet you,” Marinette says, slowly shaking the woman’s hand. The hand seems familiar, almost as if Marinette was rubbing her own needled-pricked hands. She pauses. “You were talking to Jagged? Jagged Stone?”

The woman’s cheeks darken. “Oh, yeah. _Him_ ,” she laughs. “I met him when he was a tribute and I was a trainee. You could I kickstarted his rock star vibe. He got me started as a stylist. Ever since he won, we’ve been in contact.”

Marinetet nods with the information. She very much remembers Jagged’s appearance in his own Opening Ceremony. The crazy outfit helped to boost his popularity. “What did he want? You sound bothered.”

“Look at you being a curious little baker,” Penny chuckles. “Every year he begs me to style the tribute he takes a liking to. That man just doesn’t understand that we’re assigned a tribute right after the Selection.”

Penny sighs and leans against Marinette’s chair, staring at the wall. “So I assume you heard the theme for this year?” Marinette nods, and Penny sighs discontentedly. “Colors I can work with. But occupations?” She snorts. “Are you kidding me? You can’t learn anything about a tribute. Tell me, are you a baker?”

“I help my parents out in their bakery,” Marinette answers.

“But does a baker show who you are?” Penny asks. Marinette lowers her head and shakes it. “That’s what I thought. From the pictures we were sent, I can sense some creativity. You’re strong and you seem dependable, at least that’s what I learned from the Selection. You’re also young, a fairly cute girl for your age. We need to showcase that! Or else the pompous tributes from Central with squash you like a bug.”

All of that? Including dependable. It seems a little far-fetched, but Marinette doesn’t have the energy to argue. “How can we all of that? I still have to be a baker.”

Penny clicks her tongue and wags her finger. “Tch, it’s obvious. Baker’s bake. We’ll showcase that. Now, close your eyes.” Marinette reluctantly obliges and hears Penny walking away. “I’m going to show you the plan that I had-“

“Wait, Penny!” Marinette opens her eye at Mabel’s sudden outcry and sees the short woman stumbling from across the room. “Edward mixed up the fabrics and use the wrong colors. He also messed up the sprinkles. Everything’s all messed up.”

Marinette’s heart sinks. Messed up. Central’s first impression of her will be completely messed up. She gulps and struggles to breathe. Penny shoots a heated glance at Mabel, who shrinks back in fear. She mouths an apology before she glances down at her feet.

“Mabel, you shouldn’t really say that something is wrong out loud for everyone to hear. Privately is the best way to do it. Heck, I would even accept a whisper, you know?” Penny says, shrugging her shoulders and holding out a hand. “Remember: hope. We need to keep it. As long as we think of a solution, everything will work out.”

She walks to the bag and unzips it, gazing at the garment. She hums to herself as she rubs her fingers along the material, analyzing the details of the outfit. “Marinette, do you trust me?”

Eyes opening slowly, Marinette stares at Penny. “Um, I have no other choice, so yes.”

Penny freely laughs. “Don’t look so discouraged, Marinette. We’ll fix this. I originally only planned to add a little bit of flair to it, but we’ll need more magic.” Penny points towards Mabel. “Grab me my sewing kit C. Grab a headband and some of the black fabric from Nathaniel’s outfit. And get me the sugar dust! Third shelf in the fourth cabinet. Step on it. There isn’t much time.”

* * *

“Be confident and smile,” Penny reminds her.

It isn’t often that Marinette finds herself wearing heels. She has always been clumsy and trips over air. Even now, Marinette forces herself to occasionally stare at her feet and the very high heels so she can keep her balance and hold her poise, so she doesn’t fall. She needs to remain confident. Confidence will make her appear more dependable, according to Penny. People like confidence. It gives hope.

And Marinette hopes for luck.

Her fingers rub along the hem of the dress’s bottom; the smooth fabric calms her nerves. She glances down at the red skirt with black circles covering it. It’s cute, she admits, but she could see how the designer messed up. Penny told her the dress was supposed to be pink with black ovals, which would represent sprinkles.

Still, Penny had made this apparent mistake work. Penny made some last-minute alterations and crafted a last-minute headband for Marinette—there’s a mound of black fabric with a red bulb attached to it. She described it as “the cherry on top.” Even now, Penny smiles to herself as they leave the building. They’re in an arching corridor, surrounded by tall shrubs. Penny continues walking, and Marinette struggles to match pace. Purple flowers line the walkway, elegantly tipped with white splotches that make the flowers look fake and altered with paint.

Ceremonious music hums and becomes louder as they continue walking. Eventually they walk under an archway and leave the faux garden. Marinette’s eyes widen at the wide archways to the left and right and stares doe-eyed at the giant black curtain in front of her. The intricate design of the stone is very familiar. Only one place in France has been decorated with these painstaking details.

This is the Opening Ceremonies.

“Gosh, Marinette. You look good.”

Marinette pushes strands of her bangs out of her eyes as she looks around for the familiar voice. Her eyes widen when she finally finds him. “Nathaniel, your hair!”

The boy’s orange hair is swept back, his turquoise eyes no longer hidden. The boy wears a dark gray with a shimming black shirt underneath and a matching beret. Attached to his wrist is a silver tablet. He grins sheepishly and reaches to rub a hand through his hair but pauses.

“Ah yeah, my hair.” He laughs to himself. “My stylist said I would look more approachable if everyone could actually see my eyes. Do you think they’re right?”

Marinette approaches him and carefully pushes some of his hair to the side, resting it above his eye. “I think you also need to be comfortable,” she says, smiling reassuringly “You look all gussy. And Marc, you look good too!” she adds, glancing at the boy leaning against a column.

Marc meekly looks up at her and forces a small smile.

“His stylist won’t like that you did that,” Penny comments, holding her hands behind her head.

“It’ll be fine!” Nathaniel reassures.

Penny crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him. “Tell yourself that.”

“Marinette, Nathaniel, Marc! Over here!” Nadja calls out, cupping her hands to her mouth. She gestures for them to come over. Théo and Myléne are already with her, surrounded by more stylists. A stylist puckers their lips upon seeing the group, and Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes. The escort smiles. “You all look so amazing. I’m so proud.”

The Opening Ceremonies take place in a plaza between La Garde Vertellis, a beautiful nature park, and Le Grand Paris, the benchmark for the Bourgeois family name. They erect a stage, complete with live music and a catwalk, so the tributes can be introduced and shown off to the public. It’s big ordeal and important to many. Marinette, honestly, likes admiring the costumes and has often tried replicating designer’s stitching so she can better her own skillset.

“Now your stylists worked hard to create an image for you, but it’s up to you to create your own image and present yourself to the public. Remember: these first impressions are important and can make or break you once the Games begins,” Nadja explains.

Compelling trumpets play and the speakers crackle with static. The backstage lights dim.

“I should get going,” Nadja says. “I don’t want to get any of you in trouble for lingering too long. I’ll see you all at the hotel later. I’ll make sure a nice dinner is prepped for all of you. Good luck.”

She walks away, and guards begin directing the tributes and their stylists. Marinette absentmindedly follows everyone, not wanting to find herself in a disagreement. She looks at Nathaniel. He pouts as the puckering-lip stylist berates him and messes with his hair.

“Welcome, France, to another exciting year of the Akuma Games!” Alec Cataldi’s voice echoes over the speakers. “Man, I cannot believe how long it’s been since we’ve done this ceremony. I always look forward to it each year. I’m normally excited, but,” he pauses, “I think I’m the only one.”

The crowd roars in response, arguing with him. People protest, yelling “nos” and booing.

“Oh, so you don’t agree? Then let me know how excited you are, France! Welcome to the Opening Ceremonies!”

Loud. Everyone is loud, and Marinette thinks she’s gone momentarily deaf. Her hand reaches up towards her ears but then she hears the host again. Thankfully she hasn’t gone deaf yet.

“Then let’s get this show on the road! Let’s meet this year’s tributes. Give them all a round of applause.”

One-by-one Alec announces the tributes and they leave the backstage area and enter a world of applause and lights. One bespectacled girl looks like a cop, half-hidden behind a shield and a vizor. Another girl with long chestnut brown hair is professionally dressed, donning an orange blazer with a matching skirt and white underskirt; she seems influential. Two tributes remind Marinette of pirates, and she immediately recognizes them as the siblings from West.

As the tributes continue walking onto the catwalk, bile forms in Marinette’s throat. She looks ahead towards Nathaniel as he shifts from one foot to another, his stylist already gone. He continuously glances down at the ground as people continue moving through the curtain, introduced to the country.

“Nervous?” Penny asks. She stands beside Marinette, waiting until she is forced away.

Marinette nods. Théo is ushered through the curtain.

“That’s normal. Everyone in front of you is also nervous, but they’re just rolling with it. Not everyone finds this to be normal.”

A stylist runs up to Marc and leans close to him. The boy sucks in a breath and chokes. Once Nathaniel is ushered into the runway, a guard puts his arm between Mar and the stylist. He shoves her away, and she overexaggerates a smile. Someone behind Marinette sneers at the expression.

“Make sure you twirl,” Penny says.

“What?” Marinette asks.

“Trust me. Twirl when they announce your name. All around and then wave. You won’t be disappointed,” Penny says. She takes her hand off Marinette’s shoulder before being ushered away by a guard.

Now alone, Marinette’s heart begins thumping in her chest. The guard ushers Marc through the curtain, and Marc stops profusely before the guard angrily grunts in his ear. Marc continues walking.

Marinette glances down the catwalk through the gaps of the curtains. She stares at the giant monitors. Behind Marinette, a Central tribute with blonde pixie-cut hair also watches, but her periwinkle eyes shine with excitement. “Oooh!” she cries out. “How exciting!”

Exciting isn’t the best word choice. The word is quieter than they’ve been with other tributes, but this isn’t the quietest they’ve been. The difference in volume is sad, though, compared to other tributes. Marinette knows that this will not fair well for Marc. Despite the bright lights, Marinette sees Marc smile forcefully on the screen, his lips not touching one another, and the crowd becomes slightly louder. She grimaces. It looks terrible, but she knows it’s the best the boy could muster. It’s still unlike him and somewhat cringey for someone that knows him.

His stylist knew what she was doing. She planned this. Smart.

“Your turn,” a guard says. Alec is announcing Marc’s name. the guard pulls open the curtain. “Go.”

The lights are blinding. Marinette squints as she tries looking forward. This is going to make her blind. Lights continue to flash around her. Cameras. They are taking pictures of the girl on the catwalk. She widens her eye, despite her inability to properly see, and smiles. Confidence. She holds her head up as she walks down the catwalk.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Southern District!”

Twirl. Penny’s reminder rings in Marinette’s ears as she hears her name. The girl slows her step as she stops on the runway and twirls in a few circles. The crowd begins ogling her with amusement. A few audience members whistle, others cry out, and many cheer louder. Marinette’s brow curiously furrows together. From the corner of her eye, she sees her twirl on the monitor as watches as glitter falls from her sugar. She blinks. How had Penny managed that?

Her cheeks redden. Marinette needs to continue moving. She looks left and right as then begins walking again, waving to the audience with a flourishing hand. Finally, she sees the line of tributes and a guard ushering her to continue forward. Her hand drops as she continues forward. On the screen she sees the blonde female from earlier merrily skipping down the catwalk.

There is nothing more for Marinette to do, so she continues watching the monitors: there are four tributes left.

“Chloé Bourgeois, Central District!”

The crowd goes wild as the cameras follow the president’s daughter. Her eyes are cold, and she frowns, strutting down the catwalk. The crowd continues cheering despite the displeasing demeanor. She wears a black, loose-fitting jumpsuit with a plunge neckline and a red-white-and-blue striped sash around her waist. Her hair is down, contradictory to her ponytailed appearance during the Selection. She wears a black hat that matches the dress.

Her popularity isn’t surprising. Everyone is obligated to love the president’s daughter, but some people really amp their excitement for the rich girl. The girl’s stylist must also be top-notch. Marinette recognizes the style.

Marinette continues trying to decipher the mystery as the next couple tributes walk, but the eventual loud screaming distracts her thoughts. Her heart reaches when she looks at the monitor, and she covers her mouth with her hands to keep herself from yelping. Even if she makes a sound, it would be consumed and drowned by the loud energy filling the plaza.

The rest of the tribute’s name was cut off by the shrieking. The tribute, a dark-haired female dressed in a fencing outfit that resembles a kimono, holds her composure as she continues walking down the stage. Marinette sees the girl’s frown as she rushes to her place in line.

Adrien Agreste saunters across the stage like the model he is. His outfit is simple, yet befitting and regal: a black suit and shirt. His black shoes are brilliantly polished, and they reflect the bright lights of the spotlights. The light is almost as dazzling as his smile, which pops with the help of his wonderful green eyes and his electric green tie. For a moment, Marinette thinks she might die before the Games begin. There has never been a time when Adrien has modeled with his hair gelled back.

It’s mesmerizing.

The crowd is so loud that his name sounds muffled, but an introduction isn’t necessary. His name is widely renowned across France. She almost swoons on the spot when Adrien walks past her. Marinette squeezes her eyes shut. There’s no time for this. It was a stupid childhood crush. Not a current-day crush. They will soon be pitted against one another. She cannot hold on to this.

Even if he looks so dreamy.

The cameras pan away from the stage and towards the balcony where President Bourgeois and other influential people sit, including the Gamemakers. President Bourgeois walks forward from his balcony and stares at the people in front of him. He holds up his hand and smiles as everybody cheers. It closes into a fist, and the area becomes silent.

“Everyone, I welcome you to another year of the Akuma Games. It is simply wonderful to have all of you physically here with me and everyone back at home watching this splendid occasion on their television screens,” President Bourgeois says.

The citizens in the plaza cheer. Even though it’s loud, Marinette hears someone near her clear their throat. Her eyes look at Chloé. The blonde straightens her posture and smiles triumphantly.

“I understand that this event may cause some discern for many. I, too, am struggling with the unforeseen events leading up to our current minute. But I remain hopeful, and it’s important for us to hold onto the hope that the Games bestow upon us. These Games allow us peace in a world that could be overrun by those blasted akuma that sprung during President’s Reginald’s reign nearly a century ago.”

Marinette’s fingers brush along the bottom hem of her dress once more. It’s something for her to hold onto.

“Tributes,” the president begins, staring down at the line standing before him. “I would like to personally welcome all twenty-five of you to Central. I’m sure it is quite unlike anything fathomable to your bright, young minds. Though some of you are more acquainted with this luxury than others. Tonight, we celebrate the tributes that have been chosen to represent France. Tomorrow, you shall focus on the Games, your training, and making the correct decisions about who to team yourself with.”

For the first time, the plaza is completely silent. Someone coughs in the distance. Marinette’s eyes bug at the implications that the mayor is making and the displayed favoritism.

Suddenly, the crowd erupts into applause. Wavering eyes notice some guards shifting in their position; Marinette watches as they lower their weapons. It’s a scare tactic. Slight fear causes her to pleasantly clap at the president’s words. If anything, she’s applauding because the night is almost over. But it’s also her own fear. Other tributes follow suit. Their silent claps cannot be heard, but the president and a few Gamemakers smile at the gesture.

“May your hopes be strong and carry you through the Games!” the president finishes.

 _“It’s not hope that creates a winner,”_ Penny’s voice reminds Marinette in the back of her mind. The girl straightens her posture as her smile fades. _“It’s luck.”_.

Fate is working against Marinette. Hope is wavering, but she’ll try to hold onto the luck that she’s had thus far. Even if fate and the president try to give all the luck to Chloé Bourgeois.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Similar to last chapter, there are some characters that are alluded to that aren't given names. Can you guess who they are? 
> 
> My goal is to fit as many characters as I can within this story, but they need to be fitting for the role. However, there will still be various random characters to fill the holes.
> 
> Alec Cataldi was an obvious choice to be the host. And I have some other characters that will work well with their role. Penny's inspiration to be Marinette's stylist dawned on me when I was in my argument class in April. This would give her a chance to know who Jagged is, which gives me an excuse to still write their friendship. After her first time meeting Marinette in the show, she's been very supportive and comforting towards Marinette. I thought it was a good fit, and I'm happy with how it turned how.
> 
> If you have any guesses or suggestions to characters and their roles with this story, then let me know! I would love to know the little theories and comments that you all have!
> 
> Until next time, KaidaThorn

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this far. Let me know what you think and I can't wait to see you later.
> 
> Until next time, KaidaThorn


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